THE FORGOTTEN INK

 

Once, the air in Punjab echoed with verses — not of entertainment, but enlightenment. Under the shade of banyan trees and within the mud walls of village baithaks, knowledge was not taught — it was lived. There were no degrees on paper, yet wisdom ran deeper than rivers. The people knew poetry, philosophy, faith, and revolution by heart. From the sacred verses of Guru Nanak to the haunting love songs of Waris Shah, Punjab’s very breath carried scholarship. Today, that breath feels faint. The ink that once flowed from the hearts of poets, saints, and thinkers now lies dried on the pages we no longer turn.

“ਅਸੀਂ ਪੜ੍ਹਦੇ ਸੀ ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ, ਹੁਣ ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ ਸਾਡੀ ਰੁਹ ਨੂੰ ਲੱਭਦੀਆਂ ਨੇ।”

We used to read books; now the books search for our soul.

Our grandmothers once sang lullabies that were older than any nation. Our grandfathers could quote Baba Farid between sips of tea. Today, our children swipe screens while centuries of poetry gather dust. The Vaaran are silenced. The Qissas are unread. Bulleh Shah’s questions echo, but few listen. We’ve replaced soul with noise, trade with trend, and depth with speed. It was not long ago that Punjab held in its hands not just ploughs but pens — pens that wrote of love, defiance, devotion, and the cosmos. Where did it all go?

“ਇਕ ਸ਼ਹਰ ਸੀ ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ ਦਾ, ਹੁਣ ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ ਦੇ ਵਿਖੇਰ ਗਏ ਨੇ ਪੁਸਤਕਾਲੇ।”

There was once a city of books; now the libraries lie scattered and silent.

It is not merely modernity that stole this legacy, but our own forgetfulness. We let our language be mocked as ‘rustic,’ our literature ignored as ‘folk,’ and our wisdom dismissed as ‘outdated.’ The colonial mind told us to learn in English; we listened. The post-colonial mind told us our pride lay in forgetting. So we taught our children to love foreign syllables while their own tongue withered on the margins. What use is progress if it demands the burial of one's soul?

“ਅਸਲ ਖ਼ਜ਼ਾਨੇ ਨੂੰ ਭੁਲਾਈ ਰੱਖਿਆ, ਨਕਲੀ ਸੋਨੇ ਤੇ ਫ਼ਖ਼ਰ ਕਰਦੇ ਹਾਂ।”

We've forgotten the real treasures, and now take pride in imitation gold.

And yet, the soil remembers. It remembers the footsteps of Guru Arjan, compiling divine wisdom on the banks of the Beas. It remembers Bibi Amro’s voice reciting kirtan that awakened empires. It remembers the ink-stained fingers of Bhai Vir Singh, the aching pen of Amrita Pritam whispering to Waris Shah, and the tragic beauty of Shiv Kumar Batalvi mourning lost love as if mourning Punjab itself. These are not just names — they are rivers in drought. They are libraries waiting to be re-entered. They are the soul of a people, still humming quietly beneath the static of our distracted world.

We must return, not backwards but inwards. We must read again — not just for school, but for spirit. We must speak our language not only at weddings, but in classrooms, libraries, public discourse, and poems. Let us digitize what we can, memorize what we love, and teach what we have almost forgotten. Let us record the songs our elders still carry. Let us ask questions, and seek answers — in Punjabi, in Gurmukhi, in the ink of our own ancestors.

“ਜਦ ਤੱਕ ਅਸੀਂ ਆਪਣੀ ਜ਼ਬਾਨ, ਆਪਣੀ ਲਿਖਤ, ਆਪਣੀ ਸੋਚ ਨੂੰ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੰਭਾਲਾਂਗੇ — ਅਸੀਂ ਖ਼ਾਲੀ ਰਹਾਂਗੇ।”

Until we preserve our language, our script, and our thought — we will remain hollow.

This is not nostalgia. This is a call. A call to all those who love Punjab not only for its land and food and rhythm, but for its intellect — its deep, beautiful, ancient, rebellious mind. Let us once again become the land of poets and saints, where libraries bloom beside mustard fields, and a child learns to recite Bulleh before he learns to boast. Let us make room in our busy lives to reclaim the stories, verses, and ideas that shaped us.

“ਸਾਹਿਤ ਤੇ ਗਿਆਨ ਵਾਰਸਤਾਂ ਨੇ — ਜਿਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਜਿੰਦਾਂ ਰਹਿਣ ਲਈ ਸਾਡਾ ਪਿਆਰ ਚਾਹੀਦਾ ਹੈ।”

Literature and wisdom are legacies — they need our love to stay alive.

So ask again: where has our scholarly knowledge gone? It has not vanished — it waits. In dusty trunks, in forgotten manuscripts, in fading memories, and in your own heartbeat. The ink is not dry — we just need to pick up the pen.